red wine

The taste her lips leave:
red wine, a cigarette on the patio.
She smells like her husband's cologne
and I don't care anymore (the morally
right thing doesn't match her bra, and so
it goes forgotten in the night)

She says with her eyes: the
hotel room is a safe haven, and I have
wanted nothing more than this, you and I

Her lips, hands, another story;
patience forgotten with the parting of
buttons; these hooks and pins
holding us hidden, hit the floor

(I'd like to say I swear, but tomorrow
I'll simply compliment her on her hair
and pretend it's a colleague fare
rather than a midnight flare)